


Trompe L'œil

by Anonymous



Series: Monde Déséquilibré [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Dark Ron Weasley, Gen, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Murder, Not Beta Read, Possession, Ron Weasley-centric, Tom Riddle's Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: That’s the funny thing, about being Tom. About being Tom in Ron’s head. About being Voldemort. They’re different people.Tom in Ron’s head is someone.. important. To himself. To Ronald. He has a duty. A responsibility. Ron himself doesn’t know what he is, but he’s oh so greatful for him to guide and let him grow. He’s a puppet. Ron, that is. A shadow puppet.Being played on for appearances to the world in between. Tom could never let anyone know who he was. It’d get the boy Kiss’d immediately. And certainly, at this point, Tom knew, that he could never let anyone know. Not even after he’d taken over. But it was going to be a long time before he could.He just hoped the boy could keep sane enough until then.[after the events of cos, ron picks up the diary. he keeps it.]
Series: Monde Déséquilibré [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965868
Comments: 40
Kudos: 101
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Agnitio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not J.K Rowling, all characters and rights are hers.

“An unexamined life is not worth living.”  
― Socrates

. . .

The boulders move, with a startling crack. And Ron runs ahead, through the open gate, to see his sister and bestfriend, both passed out on the rubbish, dirt, floor. He checks on Ginny; she was breathing, if you could even call it that, but slowly. Then, Harry. He was a bit roughed up, some blood on his hands and arms, slow breathing, but overall alright.

But, anyways, Ron was certain they needed Madam Pomfrey. He gets up from his spot on the floor between the two, jogging ahead the long distanve back up to the girls washroom, before lightly tripping on something. It was hard.

Ron picks up the charred, stabbed through, black diary. The book was indescribably.. close. To Ron. Like there was an uncertain connection, a connection that Ron really couldnt explain. He inspects it, suspiciously, as voices from above and behind him, yell out.

He quickly pockets the book in his tattered robes, wiping the uncomfortable dirt off his hands. Ron looks to Harry and Ginny’s unconscious bodies, before running off to the teachers.

. . .

Ron lay, on the white cot next to Ginny and Harry’s, respectively, as Madam Pomfrey bustled about, bandages in on hand, wand carrying potions and needles in the other.

Looking to Harry and Ginny, Ron grimaced. He wasn’t sure if either of them were doing as well as he originally thought.

Ginny’s labored breathing slowed, almost to a stop, before Madam Pomfrey mutter out a rambled spell. Harry’s arm was bandaged, but certainly still bleeding. Blood stained himself, his clothes, and the cotton white fabric against his arm. 

A burst through the doors startled Ron, before his eyes widened at the sight. His parents. All Ron really longed for, at the current moment, was his parents. But, as the youngest son of five other brothers and a little sister did, Ron knew how to wait.

Ginny came first, with his mother bawling at the sight, wiping furiously at her eyes and hugging her sweet, darling, daughter whole-bodiedly. Harry came next, another thing which Ron came to understand. His father stepped forward, awkwardly, eyes anxiously watching Harrys muddled form, next to Ron’s mother, whom, again, seemed to bawl furiously, holding Harry’s thin, pale, unmoving limbs. 

The whole affair was long, and tedious, which Ron knew a great deal about. His parents backed away from the cots, and Ron breathed in, eyes thinned and nearly screwed shut, ready to either be chewed out, hugged so hard he couldn’t breath, or, most likely, both. But, nothing ever happened. No hug. No words. Not even a disappointed glance. 

Rons eyes open, watching his parents, now blurry in the sight of Ron’s tears, which he hadn’t even noticed had began welling in his eyes, moved around the cots to Madam Pomfrey, conversing in short, whispered, dark, tones. 

The boy sniffs, coughing and choking up lightly, blinking rapidly as to fade the tears away, before taking one, last, long glance at his parents. Ron turns on his side, laying downwards on the bed, trying to sleep.

That may have well been the last long glance Ron would give. The kind of glances where you could lovingly notice things; notice the frown lines playing on his mother’s lips when she knew something was up with him.

The furrowed brows she had as she scolded the twins, but the ghost and twitch of a smile that gave her away and lessened her fury that was placed on his brothers.

The sigh and light grimace if Ron asked for something, but the crinkle on his mothers eyes and the playful, pretending, purse of the lips and questioning expression that she would instead give Ginny, if _she_ asked for something. 

Ron blinks, as the black object that he stowed and stuffed away in his robes felt a little awkward and uncomfortable under him. It felt warm, and as if it pulsated. Ron ignores it, eyes closing and eyes welling lightly, before falling into a blank, unwakeable, sleep.

. . .

When Ron woke, his brothers(Percy, Fred and George,) and his parents, were huddled against the two cots beside Ron. The 13 year old blinks, hands trembling lightly. He breathes in, lightly and a little laboredly, before blinking once more.

His families conversation was not unexpectedly bright, with Harry laughing boisterously at the twins jokes, his parents with relieved smiles and loving arm touches.

Hermione, as Ron was surprised to see, well, awake, sat on the edge of Harry’s bed, turning between Harry, Ginny and Percy, as his studious brother and Hermione had an animated talk.

Ron lays back on his cot, which he felt like he’d been in for ages(only a day, but he still felt extremely drained, maybe more so than before.) Madam Pomfrey seemed to be nowhere in sight, as Ron pulled out the charred book and inspected it, once more.

It.. wasn’t charred anymore. It had changed, into a dark brown cover, leatherbound diary. The pages were a light gold, with nothing written in them. It vaguely resembled something of Owle Bullock’s _Secrets of the DARKEST ART_ (which, Ron wouldn’t make the connection in quite a _while_.) An elastical brown fabric closed around, and kept closed, the book, appearing on the front. Instead of a suspicious, gaping cut, was the leather, inscripted in gold with the initials _R.W_.

Ron Weasley was written on the first page’s center. The boy blinks, fingers touching the edges of the yellow pages, before being startled back, lightly, in pain. It cut him. Lifting his finger up close, he turned it. Blood trickled out, in thick, large, drips. The liquid drops, onto the page, and as if in slow motion, Ron watches. 

It splatters on the middle of the page that had his name had been written into, burning into it, like it was a stain that couldn’t be removed, before curling up unto itself.. and disappearing. Rons eyes squint, suspiciously and a little stingingly(the cut was still dripping down the side of his pale finger.)

He feels something envelop him, something warm and nosy and picky, something that _drills_ unto his own consciousness. He fights back, for reasons now unknown and forgotten, before Ron relaxes, under the touch of it.

It has a mind of its own, digging through his head, his mind, his thoughts.. as it finally deems Ron well enough. Ron feels like hes in a dream, floating blissfully against himself, forgetting everything he holds dear. 

It settles down, in the very crevices of the boy’s racing head, as Ron _feels_ it. The shadow covering him, the form comfortably nestled beneath his skin, _the presence_. And, oddly, but maybe not so, Ron never seemed the type to stay loyal, always seemed to be able to diverge, break away and defect at any given moment; welcomes it. 

. . .

 _Beware the youngest of the male line,_ _binding and breaking fates fragile thread_. _U_ _nbeknownst to those who hurt, he will pave the way of the world, with nothing but his wand and his sharp mind._

_Hearts entwined and when blood runs, it only takes one drip and a mentor that defys the laws of everything we hold dear; he shall eradicate those whom he deems dirty and use the young mind to do so._

. . .

Trelawney jumps back, frazzled and readjusting herself, looking forwards to the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. He was pale, although always was, but more so ghostly whitefaces than usual. Trembled against his desk, he nodded to the divinations professor, as the realization sinked deep into her skin. 

She, once before, predicted the warrior that would end the war. Never had she before anticipated she would, and never would she have thought that she was to see another who would ripple the tide of the inevitable second wave of war. 

. . .


	2. Expergisci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing is wrong with me. Absolutely nothing. And if you really cared for me, you’d see that.” 
> 
> Ron stalks off, primly, properly, a little bit dysfunctionally, angry, and moreover, coldly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am not J.K Rowling, I wouldn’t want to be, anyways, and all characters and rights are hers.

Control is a big issue when you’re sick. It’s the first thing you lose— other losses come later.

—Letty Cottin Pogrebin

. . .

Ron was home. Well, as home as this.. _place_ could be. He never profoundly expressed a dislike for his ‘home’ because it was all he had. Looking back, he can tell why exactly Draco Malfoy constantly mocked him for his financial state.

For the past few weeks, the Burrow hadn’t felt as much a home as it should. Or maybe that was just Ron. A lot of things were because he was ‘just Ron.’ He didn’t mind, or, well, that was what he continued to tell himself. 

Anyways. He took up a rather profound, and new, hobby. Writing. It wasn’t anything fictious or storylike, no, just writing. About anything. His day, his problems, poems(something he was rather surprised about,) and the likes.

Ron never told anyone, of course. Percy would see to congratulate him, perhaps on pretenses that he was shaping up to be quite like him. The twins would take the mickey out of him, again, against the pretenses that he was shaping up to become Percy 2.0.

Ginny.. well, Ron didn’t know what Ginny’s reaction would be. 

After last months affairs, his little sister changed dramatically. Or maybe Ron didn’t know as much about his sister than he thought he did. For the first week back, she’d fret, running about and looking for something(something Ron didn’t quite exactly _know_ ,) muttering words under her breath, quite darkly, in fact.

Afterwards, she shut everyone, and everything, out. His mother was torn, and really, everyone else was, aswell. It really just drove Ron a little stray from spare. On Ginny’s part, it was a rather prattish move, getting everyone worried like that. 

Then, once again, after, she completely changed. She was like how she was before. Before.. hogwarts. Which, her after hogwarts may have been better than everyone would think, with her rambled and high paced discussions of what exactly the magic school was, but, no. It was worse. The same, all the same, but different. All different. Confident and fast, caustic, witty, athletic, intelligent. For his family, maybe, they were happy. Happier.

It, again, drove Ron, absolutely spare. But, no matter how much he’d deny it, _Ron was changing too._

. . . 

_To Tom,_

_My family’s been driving me mad._

_Ginny isn’t best company anymore, and the sight of any red hair in my direction(Merlin’s saggy pants, I saw my own reflection and almost screamed,) makes me want to hex something._

_I’d rather be eaten by the biting bush in the yard than voluntarily spend a day(a second, a minute, an hour—) with any of my family.  
_

**Then don’t. Don’t spend time with them.** **With your constant entries, I can _clearly_ see why they refuse to treat you properly. **

_Of course. Yes. You’re right._

. . . 

Molly Weasley was worried. Her family was changing, right before her eyes.

Of course, change was evident and always inevitable, as her children grew and matured, smartened up and learned. But her two youngest had gotten her distraught, more often than not.

After the events of the end of Ginny’s first year, she grew distant and quiet. She spent nights, days, weeks, in her room, with nothing but a “Could I have seconds?” and “Goodnight.” Then, magically(ironic,) she changed, once more, but this time, for better, and for good. Ginny brightened up, became sweeter, _softer_ , she joked around, played with her siblings and moreover, was like _before_.

In turn, Ron changed, immensely. At first, none of them would see it. They never saw much with Ron. So far, no one noticed his behaviour. His declines to play quidditch, the days(nights, weeks,) that he spent inside, in his room. His decreased appetite, the way he spoke like Percy, but posher, more judgmental, slashing and seething.

No one noticed, and quite frankly, although it hurt Ron, at first, it became relief. Relief that he was always forgotten. But.. peace never lasts long. Percy, Fred and George(surprisingly,) came together one dinner. They all took bits and pieces of Rons changing personality and habits, but only now, did they really realize all that was happening around them. 

After dinner, they appeared in Ron’s room. He had been furiously writing in his brown, leatherbound notebook, something that seemed never to leave Ron’s sight or hands. It was kept on his person, essentially, at all times. 

Ron looks up, eyes thinned, before Percy spoke out, a little awkwardly and offhandedly, “Uh, Ron.. we were hoping we could talk?” Ron stayed still, looked back to his notebook for one moment, before closing the yellow papered journal and getting up from his bed.

With the four of them in Ron’s mediumly sized room, which was cramped with two beds, his chudley cannons posters, figurines and general teenage mess(although, these days, it watered down into merely stray pens, books and the rare shirt) there wasn’t much room to spread out.

The three of Ron’s older brothers spoke at the same time, ending with Fred taking the first words. “We noticed you’ve been.. alone. Gone from the rest of us.” Ron raises a brow, suspiciously, before Percy spoke, “We just wanted to know if anything.. was wrong, Ron.”

Ron pursed his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to another, crossing his arms, defensively, “What do you mean, _wrong_?” Ron spat out, caustically, before  George cut in, “You’ve been different. After what happened to..” The words _Ginny_ were left unsaid.

It hangs in the air, taken all equally and knowingly between the four of them. It left a bitter taste in George’s mouth, as any mention of what happened during the end of Ginny’s first year always did. 

Ron hung back, cautiously, foot moving, ready to turn and walk out the door of his room at any behavior that set him off. “What does what happened to Ginny have to do with _me_?” Ron asked, brows furrowed.

”That’s exactly the thing. It didn’t do anything to you. You went off like it was a normal summer. You didn’t _care_ for Ginny, or more frankly, you don’t care for any of us.” Fred said, mouth contorting angrily and leaning in aggressively. Percy sends a warning glance to his younger brother, as automatic as him scolding a first year for any mischievous activity. 

Ron snorts, mouth open to retort, which seemed out of place, but then again, everything seemed out of place with him, nowadays.

Percy speaks, “We’re just worried, Ron. We care for you.” 

And Ron sees red, lips scowling and eyes giving a pained grimace none of his brothers could spot, which wasn’t surprisingly, they couldn’t make out much about Ron for years, much less any hurt. 

“You don’t care for me. I’m the sixth son. Left overs. The one that blends in with the rest. I’m your priss brother who’s scared of spiders, your brother who’s girlier than Ginny.” 

Percy’s mouth contorts,  brows furrowed and lips pursed in an odd way of words tangling in his mouth, unable to form something meaning and coherent.

It leaves his brothers silent, eyes wide, before Ron speaks once more. “ Nothing is wrong with me. Absolutely nothing. And if you really cared for me, you’d see that.” 

Ron stalks off, primly, properly, a little bit dysfunctionally, angry, and moreover, coldly.

His brothers are left in the dark of Ron’s room, which, they take note had been turned off without any of them spelling it to. 

It was Ron, not surprisingly. Who ever said kids couldn’t have any more accidental magic after getting their wand?(It wasnt _Ron’s_ wand, anyways.)

. . .

Ron gets away from his wide eyed brothers, heading out into their large yard. Nobody was there, just him. Ron brings both hands to his head, eyes widening into manic surprise and relief. His brothers actually _bought it_. Ron’s mouth opens, and before he knows it, giggles and hard laugh are pouring out beneath his feet. He can barely breath, as he hugs himself, the cold air breezing against his neck. 

It’s all he can think about, before the familiar cold voice straightens him out, once more, _Do not be **obvious** , you insufferable child. _

Ron stumbles over himself, as he always did whenever the sudden entry of his mentor became affronted to him, coughing into his bare arm. He nods, no words, and certainly no thoughts poured from Ron’s subconscious, albeit Tom could pick apart Ron’s entire being, heart and whole. 

Tom plays him like a puppet under the control of his master, loosely, but all the same stiffly, walking him back to their several storied home, keeping an eye out for any red tufts of hair.

. . . 

Tom, explained to Ron, that the diary was nothing more than a tool. Tom lived, or more accurately floated, about, permanently, in Ron’s head. The diary was just something easier to communicate with, and less suspicious than staring into blank space for long amounts of unaccounted time.

Ron questions how Tom could live peacefully in Ron’s head, as Tom answers. 

_Peacefully? Peaceful is the last thing I could use to describe your mind, boy. It is chaos, destruction, ambition, hurt and insecurity. It is a fire, raging incessantly and just as well usefully, it is a whirl wind constant of irritation and jealousy. Your mind is the least peaceful thing to ever been._

Ron does not answer. Tom, internally, although Ron never noticed, and probably never will(atleast, for now,)squashed away any doubts and offense and suspicion. There was much to do in a mind like Ronald’s, and Tom had all the time in the world to do it.

. . .

They were in.. Egypt. In the pyramids. 

Tom, had not anticipated this. He hadn’t anticipated anything about his current position, of course, but certainly never would have expected this.

Before.. _any_ of this absurdity that followed, he had been catching up on the history of his old schoolmates and upper classmen, among other things, through using Ronalds memories(inadequate information, unfortunately but not very surprisingly,) and reading recently published to quite ancient texts such as _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ and _Notable Magical Names of Our Time_.

In such books, he found that the old Slug Club members, like now household names, Nott, Lestrange, Avery, Mulciber and Rosier all became notable followers of one _Dark Lord Voldemort_. Tom shook his head at the thought.

To think that this was to be his future. Looking upon the wreck his current self had concluded of their hard work, Tom grumbles. His life and drive was disappointing and quite frankly, evident that his older counterpart had lost his mind, at some point during his reign. 

Longbottom, a fellow Slytherin of his, who he had pegged to be a grey wizard, promptly had a son, and a _grandson_ at that, whom were both positively _light_. 

Relatives of the Weasley boy whom he had been occupying, Ignatius Prewett and Septimus Weasley, both his upperclassmen, all stayed light, and sadly, bloodtraitors. A waste of precious pureblood and talent(just look at the Weasley child’s eldest brothers.)

The Blacks, specifically cousins Orion and Walburga.. married. Tom, hypothetically and mentally, shudders. Every aspect of purebloodity was something that appealed to Tom.. except for the cousin marrying.

He could agree, to some degree, with keeping the blood pure, and that even marrying another unrelated pureblooded family was always going to be, _somehow_ , related to them, albeit a small amount, but he could never see as to why they refused such.. _logical_ offers, in turn to the more ‘attractive’ option of marrying a cousin that you grew up with by your side. 

Tom barely gives a halfhearted glance to the written text of the named of their children, _Sirius Orion Black_ and _Regulus Arcturus Black_ before skipping their lives and biography. 

He stops at a page that made his lips curl. Rubeus Hagrid. After, getting his wand snapped, he stayed at hogwarts. Dumbledore permitted it, and had been titled _Groundskeeper_. Tom pursed his lips at the words. He skips the page. 

After a few hours of using the boy to read such books, he slumps, sighing. “How long are you going to have me read this pureblood family tree geneology, Tom?” Tom purses his(hypothetical) lips. “Not too long. I just wanted to see how my old schoolmates were doing.” 

Then, just as Tom got to the page about the _Dumbledore’s_ the boys’s older brothers burst in, rambling off about a trip of some sort. Tom feels the childs lips quirk up, just slightly, before slipping his precocious and unphased expression back on to please him. The young dark lord scowls, internally noting to teach the boy to be rid of such childish emotion. 

. . .

So, yes. They were in.. _Egypt_.

The trip was completely unethical and a waste of money. Tom certainly _thought_ that Molly Weasley was to put quite a bit of money away, spend some to atleast get her children decent robes and god forbid, Ron a real _wand_. She did, get Ron a wand atleast, but the rest was split into their savings and the rest used to blow away and travel to Egypt to see her eldest son, William Weasley. 

Everyone else called him Bill. Tom never understood quite exactly _why_ , when such a powerful, _pure_ name of his was there for the taking. It was quite the same with Ginerva Weasley.

Otherwise, most was.. _well_. Ronald got a wand, quite time for it, having used his second eldest brothers unicorn hair wand that certainly was _not_ fit for him. The wand choosing process in Diagon Alley was a tedious experience, but made for quite an.. _interesting_ display. 

. . .

Molly bustled about, before the thought of Ron’s wand appeared in her head. She drags her youngest son over to Ollivanders before dropping him off at the storefront.

Ginny’s second year was affront and it was Percy’s owl year, which proved to her at such an intense verocity nearly drove her mad. She loved her third son, but he was very hard to pry away from his studious habits.

And so, Ron was left alone, with a few galleons in hand and all that was left to do was step in. 

The doorbell jingled, something that briefly surprised the boy. The shop smelled.. like fresh parchment. And firewood. It was musty, but not very so, warm and inviting and cozy, but still had that ‘mystical’ air around it. 

Ollivander came from around the corner, boxes in his arms, before he set them down on the counter as he eyed the youngest Weasley boy. “I had suspected to see you three years ago, but here we are now.” He said, voice crackling and raspy. He was an eccentric man, according to Ginny and his older brothers.

Ollivander gave a finger, gesturing for Ronald to step forward, so he did. Out of his hand, he began to measure Ronald’s hands, arms, legs, the sorts, as he spoke and asked the boy questions. 

“Left handed or right handed?”

”Both.”

Ollivander hums, without any tone of.. well, anything. 

“How tall are you?” 

“..Just under 5’6.”

Ollivander nods, finishing up a few adjustments and heading to the back. Tom whispers, lightly, into Ron’s ears, a few suspicions. _Watch for any sudden movements,_ and _Do not let your guard down._

Ollivander appeared, once more, with two boxes in hand. One was length and grey in box color, a little bit dusty, perhaps under the weight under the others or its age. The second was a deep plum, velvet box, with gold swirl linings atop the lid. 

The old man hands the grey box to Ron, gesturing him to open it. “14 inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair.”

Ron opens the box, inspecting the greying willow wood, before taking a swipe at it, towards a book lying innocently on Ollivanders desk behind him. It burst into an amalgated mess of papers and hard red cover. 

The young boy looks to Ollivander, eyes widened slightly, carefully placing the wand back into the box. Ollivander’s brows furrow, in distress and confusion, before handing the second box to Ron. 

“8 and 1/2 inches, cedar, phoenix feather.” Ollivander says, hands clutched against one another in anticipation. Ron, once more, gave a light hit with the wand against anything in the shop. 

Light shattered was heard behind Ron, as he turned to see the silver bell lying sadly against the caramel varnished wood beneath him. Ollivander bumps around his shelves, mumbling incoherently and frustratedly, before stopping at the last row in the far back. 

He returned with another box, incredibly dusty, but in a well preserved black box. It was free of any dents, gashes or rips on the box fabric. 

“11 and 3/4ths inches, yew, beech, with a dragon heartstring core.” He eyes Ron uneasily, “It was made by my great grandfather.” 

Ron nods, slowly unencapsuling the smooth matte lid, pulling out the mediumly sized wand. It was extraordinary beautiful, with ornate carvings on the wand hold, a black bottom tip that faded into the middle of the center circle wood and a intimidatingly sharp tip. Ron waved, again, towards Ollivanders shelf, as a singular box flew out silently and cleanly. 

In the background of Ron’s fascination was Ollivanders heart wrenching, gutted, breath. He knew exactly which woods were included in the wand, and knew why his grandfather dug his own grave creating the wand. Working with elder wood was a dangerous task, and not to be taken lightly.

It was the mere fact of trying to recreate the infamous Elder wand which drove his grandfather mad into obsession of finishing it. 

Ollivander struggles to hold himself against his counter, blinking rapidly with shaking arms. The boy placed his galleons on the table, squinting at the wand and nodding to the older man, a few extra galleons and sickles placed on the table and one less leather wandholder on the counter table. 

. . .

It certainly surprised Tom, as the Weasley boy aquired his wand. Yew, Tom thought. What his current wand was made of. It was remarkably ironic to the young dark lord, in more ways than one, but more evidently that the poor, pureblooded, Weasley boy had much in common with him. 

Ronald spent hours with his wand, in pure fascination of his very own _wand_. 

During the trip in Egypt, as well, he toyed around with his, particularly _strong_ wand(he’d bet it all on his wand, without a single drip of question as to where all this sudden power was found from, for now not realizing it was all _him_.) 

So far, the trip to the pyramids proved a wrong move on Ron’s mother’s part. The twins had recently locked their older brother(Percy,) into a pyramid, whilst Ginny and Bill conversed animatedly on the sidelines. Arthur and Molly goggled at the sights of the sand buildings as Ron continued to stretch and test the strengths of his wand. 

It was certainly a strong piece of wood(with having yew, beech and elder packed in it was inevitable and may, have very well been _embarrassing_ if it hadn’t been a strong wand.) 

The trip hadn’t been bad, with less mishaps than one would probably anticipate, with the twins coming along. But, as the trip stretched on, Bill sensed something with Ron. Perhaps the same thing that Ron’s other older brothers did.

Though, before Bill could _do_ anything, consulting it _with_ Percy, Fred and George stopped him from doing so.

”Bill, that’s not a path you’re going to want to take,” George said, rushingly, “Well, why not? He’s my younger brother, and I’d like to see if something was wrong. Something certainly _is_ afoot.” Percy sighed, “Well, Bill, we did try that, already—“ Fred interrupted, “He yelled at us, shutting his rooms power off with particularly strong accidental magic. Bill stops at that, _didn’t children stop having accidental magic after they acquired their wan—_ oh _._

Bill opens his mouth to fight back, but at the sight of his defeated younger brothers it stopped him. “Well—merlin, alright. Just.. keep an eye out for him. I’m worried.” Simultaneous looks were passed on throughout one another before a curt nod was exchanged. Then, that was the end of it.

Afterwards, their vacation went off without so much as a bump or bruise and so on, was smooth sailing. They returned in August, tanned, and still quite energetic. 

The tan offput Ronald(and Tom,) it, unfortunately and clearly distastefully, made him look much too summery and warm, which he seemed to despise as of late, albeit his birth being beginning to mid spring. He had a feeling that he’d much rather look forward to December, although could not figure out, for the life of him, why. 

Tom had, currently, been trying to eliminate most traces of wrongdoing towards himself and most pathetic emotions that usually cropped up in the Weasley boys head(fear, insecurity, embarrassment, offense, suspicion.)

It, seemed, that Ron was, surprisingly, gaining traits that were, undoubtedly, from Tom. Occlumency, for one, another, being intelligence. Ronald wasnt particularly _stupid_ , very smart and tactical, infact, but without such things as short attention span and lesser understanding of simple topics, such as transfiguration.

The boy excelled in such subjects as charms, potions and astrology, albeit the low score he got on his potions final at the end of second year(Snape was certainly intimidating, more so when he was _eying you the whole test_.)

He gained personality traits to that of similarity towards himself; cold, calculating, observant, unemotional. Or perhaps that was Tom’s inner mind work, but he would never know either way. But, all in all, Ronald was changing, for better or for worse. 

And, soon enough, after a chaotic display in Diagon Alley(Hot tempered red heads, loud voices, scolding parent, hand me down robes, discount textbooks,) it.. was third year. 

There was a lot in store this year, a great many things on Tom’s internal list, but Sirius Black escaping Azkaban was certainly _not_ one of them. 


	3. Dubitatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third years off to a rocky start.
> 
> “..It’s getting cold, Tom.”  
> Do not worry. It won’t affect you. I’ve made sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah im punching ao3 writer in the face it deleted this whole chapter so if its wonky sorry!! its been pasted from my notes

  
“Pull the string and it will follow wherever you wish. Push it, and it will go nowhere at all.“ — Dwight D. Eisenhower

. . .

“Is that Harry?” Ron asked, beside Hermione.  They were outside of a—currently bustling with people—Florean Fortescues Ice Cream Parlor. 

Hermione, who had been looking around and holding an icecream cone with four scoops (one was a mystery flavor, somewhat like the Bertie Bott’s every flavor beans—lemon,  fortunately  , the next being vanilla, mint and the last being birthday cake,) made a noncommittal sound to her friends questions, before turning forwards and jumping up.

It _was_ Harry. 

“Harry! HARRY!” Hermione yelled,  frantically, as Ronald edged away from her.

The dispersing crowd around Fortescue’s stopped to watch the yelling girl beside him.

Ron shook his head, as Tom  inwardly  reprimanded him. One of Tom’s many rules was not to draw attention—and, well, he was, at the moment.

A certain ravenheaded boy,  extremely  skinny, somewhat taller, turned to where his name was being called.

Eyes widening with glee, he ran over to where they were—at a table outside the parlor. 

Harry came over, sitting down onto the empty third seat at the white, prim, parlor table, grinning  manically.

“We were wondering  where you’d been!” Hermione spoke, free hand  animatedly  expressing herself to Harry, Ron,  silently  nodding along.

“You weren’t at the Leaky Cauldron, then Hermione dragged me to Madam Malkins and Flourish and Botts.”

Ron came down with a quiet whisper, “I think  she  just  wanted to see the new books—  apparently  nothing can beat going there, not even Owl order.” Hermione,  irritatedly, but not  negatively, hit Ron, a soft smile gracing her face.

“I got my books _last_ week—wait, how’d you know I’d been staying at the Leaky Cauldron?” Harry asked, recognition finally dawning on him.

Hermione blinked, turning to Ron, as he answered without missing a beat, “Dad.” He said  simply, rhythmically  tapping the metal table under his fingers.

The answer was an easy lie, and not  really  a lie at all. Ron’s father worked at the ministry, and he’d slipped it out at the dinner table the week before. (Albeit Ronald already knowing—Tom knew a lot of things, and Ron learned not to ask where he got the knowledge from.)

“..Did you actually blow up your aunt, Harry?” Hermione asked,  seriously , no sarcasm lying underneath her tone.

It brought Ron back to the conversation, but in the end plummeting him down a thinking spiral.

Was Harry’s magic that strong?  Accidental magic  was supposed  to stop, after a child got their wand, but it seemed Harry had still been experiencing it .. or was it wandless magic?

Not much could differentiate the two, at first glance, but there was much to it.  Firstly  being, intent. 

But, then again, much was there with intent.  Intent to  wandlessly  do the magic set the course for wandless magic, and intent to anything set the course for accidental magic .

Emotions  thoroughly  influenced accidental magic, causing things to happen. Out of intense fear, anger or even happiness.

It shouldn’t have been a mystery, considering that witches and wizards had been around since as long as muggles had been.

Perhaps  even longer, but muggles already had most of the knowledge surrounding themselves and their genetic code down to a tee—

“Ron?” A male voice asked, “Ron! Ronald W—“ The other being female. Knocked out of his stupor, Ron jumped back, blinking.

His friends stared  incredulously  at him, brows furrowed. “We called you about a thousand times, Ron.” Harry said, turning to him with his lips  lightly  pursed.

“I,” Ron stumbled over himself and his words, “I was  just  thinking.” Ron said  gingerly , hand raising to his neck in mock embarrassment.

Well, mock to Ron, real to his friends. A glance passed between Harry and Hermione, but they brushed it off nonetheless.

It, however, would certainly pop up at some point, once more.

“..Anyways. Reckon your dad knows why they let me off so  easily  , Ron?” Harry asked,  curiously.

Ron didn’t answer for a moment, thinking, before opening his mouth, “It’s because it’s you. Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and all that.” Ron shrugged.

“No one’d want to see their hero taken away by the minister and ministry— there’d be a riot.” He concluded, waving his hand  limply  to the people bustling around Diagon Alley.

“Ask my dad, if you’d like. We’re staying at the Leaky Cauldron tonight. We can go to King’s Cross together. Hermiones coming along, aswell.”

Hermione nodded  sheepishly , “Mum and dad dropped me off earlier with my all my Hogwarts things.“ 

Harry’s grin widened, “So you’ve all got your new books and stuff?” Ron snorted, “She’s got a whole luggage of them, could supply a whole army and teach,” Ron stopped. “

Muggle studies, was it?” He said with a chuckle. Hermione shook her head annoyed. “It’ll give me perspective on what the magical world sees the muggle world as!” Ron gave a disgusted gag. “Perspective.” He mocked. 

“So, do you plan on sleeping or eating at all this year?” Harry joked, Hermione rolling her eyes and ignoring him.

“You’d been wanting to buy something, Hermione?” Ron reminded her, the stuffy atmosphere of the crowd that’d formed at the front of Fortescue’s getting to him.

“Oh, yes! I’ve got 10 galleons left,” She paused, “My birthday’s in September, and I’ve been wanting an owl. I mean, Harry, you’ve got Hedwig, Ron, you’ve got Errol, it’s  just  so appealing to have an owl, and not borrow one from the owlery.

She concluded, pulling her purse out. Ron sought not to correct her on the fact that all he had was the thinning brown rat that sat in it’s cage back in his luggage. 

“There’s a magical creature shop, over there.” Harry pointed out towards the other side of the street as Hermione’s head followed his finger.

She immediately lit up, nodding and grabbing her belongings. Ron trudged along as they made their way to the purple brick building. Magical Menagerie  was written  on a yellow sign that hung  halfheartedly  from the roof. 

The door made a light jingle when they stepped in. It smelt of animals, of course, and was  extremely  loud.

It didn’t  really  help Ronald’s headache. (Courtesy of Tom; he’d been researching and piling through Ron’s memories recently.  What for?Ron didn’t know, but it felt as if someone particularly rude and impatient was ripping through his office .) 

Standing on the edge of his friends, he soon took to staying outside. The fresh air helped get his mind off the ache, before the silver bell behind him rung once again.

..And.. Hermione got.. a cat. It hadn’t particularly bothered Ron, but later, anyways, it set Scabbers off running fear.

Most  cowardly  pet—it was  really  quite distasteful, in Ron’s opinion.

So, in the end, he kept the fat, balding creature in its cage. It scratched him, once or twice, but Ron couldn’t care much.

The cat, large and orange, looked a bit like himself (It reminded him—Tom’d have to teach him the appearance altering spell, and then the human transfiguration spell again . His hair was getting much to red for his liking. He’d gotten used to the auburn that Tom spelled upon him last month) and purred under Hermione’s touch.

It eyed him,  carefully . Ron payed no mind to it. 

The three of them walked along Diagon Alley, ending up at the Leaky Cauldron. The place smelt of Firewhiskey and something more sweet. Ron’s father, Arthur, sat at the bar, hunched over, newspaper on hand. 

He had been working hour after hour; the ministry pulled everyone off of their regular office jobs to find Sirius Black.

They needed all the help they could get, considering he was one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal followers and he escaped the Wizarding World’s most tight prison.

Harry spoke with Ron’s father as, Ron himself, sat down. His headache was more than a nuisance by now, and he  desperately  needed to write to Tom.

Pulling out the leatherbound notebook that  was charmed by  a Reducio, Ron spelled it with a finite. 

An ink pot and quill lay along his miscellaneous items in his messenger bag (Tom required him to start bringing one along,) before he dipped the ruffled quill into the spotty ink . 

_What do you keep digging for, Tom? You aren’t very inconspicuous._

From what Ron knew about the young dark lord, he’d  probably  be rolling his eyes by now.

**You’re really  don’t know when to mind your business, do you, child? **

_I mean, you’re one to talk, Mr-Looks-Through-My-Memories-at-Night._

**I’m merely stating facts. And anyways, you don’t need to know what I’m doing. To satisfy your distasteful curiosities—I’m looking for some history on your family.**

_..I—what? Why?_

**No matter. I’ll find it myself—you aren’t very good help.**

_Don’t be mad at me. You know how I was before you._

**Yes, whatever. Just  close the book, I can feel eyes boring into you.**

_I’ll write back later. Thank you, Tom._

Ron  gently  shut the leatherbound book, winding the strap against it once more. He tucked it into his jeans pocket with another quiet reducio.

The pub was a magical hotspot, so it was unlikely the ministry would be able to detect any underage magic around the sheer amount of witches and wizards.

The rest of his family bustled in, large shopping bags in hand. Fred and George appeared behind his mother, then Percy, then  lastly, Ginny.

Ron’s sister was especially taken with Harry, having  been saved by  him the previous year—it didn’t help her rubbish fantasies from even before they met—and walked towards him to say hello.

Ron didn’t miss the  lightly  dusted pink on her cheeks. 

The twins pestered Percy with his badge, as it  was held  in the both of their hands, throwing it amongst eachother, leaving Percy to jump about.

Although Percy was older, the twins had grown once more, abandoning Percy below them.

He and Ron were  incredibly  skinny, and tall. It meant that by next year Percy’d grow again, and the twins had  just  had their last growth spurt.

Percy took back the badge, with his wand(he was 17 now,) and walking over to Harry, as Ginny  sheepishly  edged away from her crushz

Ron didn’tunderstand it at all. The crush on Harry, and the whole crushes part.

The twins and Ron’s mother came over, Ginny finding sudden interest in the conversation before the group split apart. Assuming the conversation wasn about Harry again, Ron looked away.

It left Percy in a rather tense mood. He made his way upstairs, hands  craftily  fidgeting with the silver Head Boy badge. 

Ron watched the scene amongst his family, tapping the wooden table under his hand.

He could  really  care less, about his familial relationships, but as Tom always reminded him.

“You mustn’t give away anything. Appearances are everything; if you reveal yourself early, you will lose.”

It hadn’t made much sense to Ron, at first, but he grew to apply it to all situations that cropped up around him. Apathy became a useful something evident in his personality.

It  certainly  showed, leading to a worry seeping under the skin of his bestfriends.

Though, the spotlight switched off upon him, towards something new.

It gave Ron a break, for the time being.  He could  actively  try to pretend to care about what was happening, rather than scramble and struggle with keeping himself covert .

Ron eyed the newspaper lying  innocently  beside him. It showed a rather distasteful and miserable Sirius Black screaming into the photograph.

He recently escaped Azkaban. To Tom, this was new information(he  really  had to get back to that geneology book tucked in Ron’s trunk.)

It wasn’t a large worry for the trio, because it wasn’t like Black was going to hunt one of them down, right?

Right? ..Well, considering Harry’s track record, it was.. likely.

Later, at dinner, Ron was  noticeably  absent from the buzzing conversation.

His older brothers, Harry, his mother and his father spoke in light tones. Though Ron noted the tense expression on his fathers face, and the hardened furrow of the brow on his mother.

Ron shook his head, dismissing any observations.

He’d grown used to analyzing people, even when he didn’t need to. A skill that Tom required for him to have, or more  accurately, shoved into his head.

The redheaded boy picked  lightly  at his food. The conversation nor the food was very appealing. Ron cut it up into small pieces and bites, chewing particularly slow.

Hermione eyed her friend  carefully  , looking to Harry to try and notify him, but failed, as he  was invested  into whatever invention or business idea that the twins pitched to him.

Afterwards, later into the night, Percy and Ron began arguing.  Loudly , and not very dismissible, Harry made his way to room 12. 

Hands were  expressively  thrown around in anger, as Ron boiled in his fury.

He had never been one to push it down, different from Percy who usually did and never expressed much more than politeness, annoyance and silence.

Ron did it anyways, keeping silent with hard eyes as Percy yelled at him, red in the face, opposite to Ron’s pale white one.

Ron opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Percy interrupted him, finger pointing and digging into Harry’s bestfriend’s chest . 

“You’ve been acting this way, all summer!” 

“What way? How would you even know? You’re cooped up in your room all summer, and you did it all those summers before too! And all for what? To get a Head boy badge? A silly pin—“

”It is not _silly_ , and I _know_ you don’t think that because you _took_ it! It sat here,” He pointed to the caramel nightstand, “When I went to change! And the only other person whose been in here was you!”

”Are you saying I _stole_ it?! I wouldn’t even _touch_ that thing, nonetheless get to, you keep it on yourself like its a winning lottery ticket—“

Harry’s footsteps creaking under the Leaky Cauldrons old floors alerted the two brothers, spinning on their heel to look at Harry .

Harry cursed under his breath. “I— I think  I saw it downstairs? On the dining table—I’ll go get it, right now.” Harry concluded, rushing to leave the tense air surrounding room 12.

Percy and Ron stood, in silence,  angrily .

It struck Percy as odd behaviour. Most things that Ron did that summer struck him in an odd way, but Ron keeping his temper down? His words in his mouth? Uncalled for, so Percy spoke once more.

Ron cut him off. Percy could  barely  make out a halfhearted word, as Ron blew up at him. A string of curses followed his yelling, his hands thrown around.

Fortunately , Harry came back up, silver and red pin in hand. He placed in onto Percy’s palm, as the air became less so tense, more so regretful.

Harry,  uneasily, edged away from his bestfriend.

Everytime Harry got near his redheaded friend, he’d feel particularly dizzy, and sometimes had a headache .

Harry immediately dismissed the thought of him being Voldemort in disguise, like Professor Quirrel, because, he was his bloody best mate for one thing .

And, Molly Weasley’d  probably  kill Ron before he could go around trying to kill Harry, much less  be possessed by  a dark lord . 

Harry shudders at the cold feeling, striding away to his room next door,  silently  praying that no more fights would occur; he’d want a proper sleep. 

The prayer was  quickly  broken, as he heard muffled screams and infuriated yells from both rooms that sat beside his own.

Pulling a pillow upon his head, Harry cursed once more.  His mirror,  dejectedly  , said something about ‘foul mouthed teenagers’ and ‘the youth these days.’

. . .

Morning—as mornings with the Weasley’s usually were—was not very short of unpleasant, unwarranted chaos. 

The twins spelled Percy’s trunk to jump around and move, Ginny couldn’t find her shoes and Hermione  nearly  blew up her own trunk. 

She was digging around for her Biting Care of Magical Creatures book, thus it getting agitated, thus her getting scared and flinging her luggage away from her, into the wall. 

Tom (the barkeep) was _not_ going to be happy. But, as working at the Leaky Cauldron for more than 20 years conditioned you to do, he  was used  to it.

Ron  was hunched  away, with a dark, gloomy aura surrounding him. He wrote,  frustratedly  and  rushedly , into his brown notebook.

His trunk was already packed,  neatly  , with a feather lightening charm and another reducio.

Percy interrupted him, yelling that Ron spilled tea on his girlfriend’s portrait.

Ron and Percy had quite a lengthy row that morning(all appearances, of course. Ron could  really  care less if Percy, or anyone else, was mad at him. He, also, already knew that it was Ginny that made the horrible blotch on his girlfriends picture.)

Ron wandered into Harry’s room(his mother insisted so, Harry  probably  hadn’t packed yet and they hadn’t much time left to spare before they were completely late,) and finally caught him shoving socks into a smaller compartment of his trunk .

Harry turned to see Ron, eyes widening— “I need to tell you something.” He spilled out, arms halfway down his  magically  enlargened bronze trunk.

It was the same one since first year, but as the work got harder and the teachers began assigning more homework, more books, he had to spell it.

Ron sat on the edge of Harry’s crickety bed in room 11, gesturing for him to speak.

“When I went downstairs the other night.”  Distractedly  Harry pulled his right arm out, plucking a stray textbook that lay  innocently  beside him with his left, shoving it down the same way.

“To get Percy’s pin.” Ron concluded from his statement, as Harry nodded, “Your mum and dad were arguing. I.. —I listened to what they were saying.”

Ron’s brows furrowed, and he approached the topic  gingerly.

He didn’t want Harry getting suspicious of him any time soon, albeit he didn’t care if the skinny boy was listening in on his parents’s row.

“..And?” Ron said,  gruffly , trying to imitate any ounce of irritation that he used to take on.

“It was about Sirius Black. And me.” Rons head tilted, “Sirius Black? And you?” He spoke  slowly , Harry replying, “Hes after me. They—your parents—they think hes escaped to kill me, and bring Voldemort back to power.“

Uncharacteristically, Ron didn’t flinch at the name. It floated amongst them in the tense air,  bitterly, but for such reasons unknown. Ron shook his head, shutting his eyes.

“ _Harry_. You’ve got to be careful this year—more careful than ever before.” He opened his eyes.

“Sirius Black isn’t a _basilisk_ petrifying students, he isn’t _Voldemort_ hiding on the back of our teachers head— he is a _murderer_ , and a _right mad one_.” Ron finished, Harry taking note of his use of the dark lords name

It wasn’t like him to be fine with it, much less say it.

Or  maybe  Ron was growing up, like they all tried to coerce him to do. Before, it caused a three day long fight between them, before Ron apologized.

Harry opened his mouth to say something more, before there was a burst at the door.

Ron  slowly  walked over, twisting the knob open.

Hermione ran down the hallway, alongside Ginny, something flying past the tall redhead, hitting the wall behind him with a bang of smoke. 

The twins let out a guffaw of laughter in the room that Ron and Percy shared. Ron suspected it had something to do with the firework bang.

Then, thirty minutes late from the time they  were supposed  to leave, countless trips back to their rooms ensued.

“I forgot my textbooks!” and “My wand is stuck in the sink!” or even “Fred and George reducio’d my pants!”—that was Percy. Always the victim of Fred and Georges pranks.

Later, the ministry ordered cars that they piled into were nice, old fashioned 60s cars. The had green velvet seats and tinted windows. Harry sat beside Hermione, then Ron, then Percy, to the head boy’s disgruntlement.

The wizards driving weren’t very good— they were  probably  purebloods, or even wizard raised halfbloods . Although, the spaces the magical car could fit into made up for their lack of skill.

It was silent, on the way to King’s Cross, without so much as a bump from the road, or the slow breathing of everyone inhabiting the vehicle.

Soon enough, it pulled into the muggle train station, alongside the other car, and several Weasley’s all came out . 

As always, like usual, King’s Cross was  extremely  busy.

Be it wizards and witches directing their children to the train to Hogwarts, or muggles coming to get to their own destination, it  was packed. 

Loud voices and horns and honking surrounded the train station and it was  undoubtedly  hectic.

The ministry drivers supplied them with trolleys and they unloaded their trunks.

They had a silent conversation with Ronald’s father, before driving away.

Ron swore he saw one of them phase through a stop sign.

Ron’s father exclaimed something about going in pairs, but Ron did not care much for it, and  promptly  went in first.

He could not hear the conversation on the other side, but Harry was  lightly  surprised at his bestfriends offhandedness. 

Soon, alongside Harry and Hermione, the Weasley family was all in the station.

Percy ran over to his girlfriend, Penelope, bright pink and  nearly  soaring through the air at joy from seeing her once more. 

Harry and Ron’s father pulled their trolleys away, having a conversation and packing them into the empty storage carriage.

The diary burned in Ron’s pocket. It seemed Tom was quite a bit mad at the redhead—he hadn’t let him out for hours.

Ron’s headache increased and he seethed, gritting his teeth. Ron was  eternally  grateful for the man showing up in his life, but wasn’t he a _nuisance_.

Tom threw a punch in Ron’s head, and the boy could  barely  contain himself from doubling over.

Ron’s mother came over, giving quick and sweet kisses to each of her children(and Hermione and Harry,) and handing them sandwiches.

Ron eyed the brown paper bag  greenly  , before  discreetly  putting it back in his mothers arms.

She was far too busy to notice, and Ron’s appetite was far too gone that day to want to eat anything, much less.. whatever she gave him.

Harry  was whisked  away, once more, by Ron’s father and Ron hung back in the crowd his family formed.

The area had since then dimmed down into waving goodbyes, since they were in the magical part of the station.

The burning in his pocket soothed into a cold relief—Tom was happy about something. And.. something did click in Ron’s head. He didn’t know what, but he did know something did finally make sense.

And anyways, all was well—Tom had finally calmed, and his headache ceased into nothing but a light dizzy linger.

Ron, without thinking, boarded the train alongside Hermione and Ginny.

His bushy haired friend talked about the amounts of children soon piling up in the wizarding community—a  whoppingly  large number after the war.

He nodded along, humming  absentmindedly, and sat down on the red velvet cushioned seats.

Ron set down his, spelled lighter, handheld luggage beside him, eying the fading figures out the window. 

Ginny provided snippets of input to Hermiones newfound astonishment, which  sneakily  passed by Ron’s ears without a second thought(though, Tom latched onto every word uttered by them, storing it for later. He, also noted, the man in the corner, sleeping.)

A steam powered whistle blew throughout the station and Harry  frantically  ran over to their compartment.

Ron slid open the door,  as to  avoid Harry slamming headfirst into it. He didn’t want any accidents before even arriving at Hogwarts, did he?

Harry stepped in, thanking Ron with a smile, before sitting down beside Hermione. Ron caught the boys eye—he hadn’t told Hermione yet.

“Ginny—um, I’ve got to speak to them in private—“ Ron rolled his eyes, “He needs you to leave, Ginny.” Then, she rolled her eyes(the audacity she had,) muttered something, and left. 

“Who’s this?” Harry asked, sliding down the seat further, taking up the space Ginny  previously  took. 

“Professor R. J. Lupin.” whispered Hermione at once. “How’d you know that?” Harry asked. 

“It’s on his case,” she replied, pointing at the luggage rack over the man’s head, where there was a small, battered case held together with a large quantity of neatly knotted string.

The name Professor R. J. Lupin  was stamped  across one corner in peeling letters.

“Teaches Defense Against The Dark Arts, it seems.  ” Harry looked confused, though Hermione nodded and provided the missing information.

“There’s only one vacancy, and we’ve never seen him before, have we ?”

”Okay. Alright.” Harry said.

“So.” He started, “I already told Ron about this, but, Sirius Black—you know, the murderer—is after me.” There was a silence.

“ _You_?!  Harry—“ Harry shrugged, “I overheard Ron’s parents talking while I was going to get Percy’s pin the other night, and today, Mr. Weasley pulled me aside to talk to me about it .”

Harry explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s argument and the warning Mr. Weasley had  just  given him.

When he’d finished, Hermione had her hands clasped together  tightly, face pale. She opened her mouth to  shakily  bite out a response.

With no words to say to Harry—she was far too shocked to, at the moment—she directed her fear and anger at Ron.

“How come you’re so calm about this, Ron?!” The redhead shook his head, shrugging, opening his mouth to respond.

Though, he hadn’t gotten the chance. “What’s that noise? Did someone open the window?” Hermione said, inspecting the side of the train car.

Harry shook his head. A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from somewhere.

Hermione stood up, looking around and checking the window once more.  “It’s coming from your trunk, Harry,” said Ron.

Hermione pulled Harry’s trunk down, clicking the clasps open and pulling an object out. “It’s a Sneakoscope.” She said, holding it up to her face to look closer.

The object was spinning at a  lightly  paced speed, before she handed it to Ron to take a look.

It brightened, flaring up and twirling faster, as Ron eyed it  closely. He passed it to Harry, next. 

“It’s probably broken,” Ron said. “It went haywire just as I was tying it to Errol’s leg to send it to Harry.”

“Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?” Hermione asked. 

Ron paused, “I wasn’t supposed to be using Errol. He’s too old to take long journeys, but I had no other way to get Harry’s present to him.”

“Put it back the trunk,” Harry advised as the Sneakoscope bipolarly spun faster and faster as Harry turned it, moving it forwards and backwards. “Or it’ll wake him up.” He nodded toward Professor Lupin.

Ron stuffed the Sneakoscope away, deep under books and papers and quills, before pushing the luggage back up on the shelf.

“They sell these magical instruments at the Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade.” Ron said, sitting back down.

“Pranks stuff like dungbombs and acid pops. Could get it fixed there, Harry.”

“Do you know much about Hogsmeade?” Hermione pressed. “I’ve read it’s the only  entirely  non-Muggle settlement in Britain —”

Ron shrugged  offhandedly. “It is. I’m unsure about the details,” He waved a hand, “I’ve only  been told  about Honeydukes.”

“What’s that?” said Hermione.

“It’s a sweetshop.” Ron provided.  “Sugar quills, Treacle Fudge,” Ron paused looking to Harry, “Ice mice, Cauldron Cakes, Pixie puffs . Everything.” Ron finished, looking at his fingernails.

“But Hogsmeade’s a very interesting place, isn’t it?” Hermione pushed on, “In Sites of Historical Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for the 1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s supposed to be the most severely haunted building in Britain —”

Hermione looked around at Harry. “Won’t it be nice to get out of school for a bit and explore Hogsmeade?”

Harry shrugged, sighing. “It should be. Tell me about it when you go.” 

“Hm?” Ron asked  noncommittally . “I can’t go. The Dursleys didn’t sign my permission form, and Fudge wouldn’t either.”

Ron looked up, “Huh?” he continued, “How come—oh.” Harry gave a dry nod.

“Though, Fred and George, they know every secret passage out of the castle—” Hermione’s eyes widened, “Ron!”

“I don’t think Harry should be sneaking out of the school with Black on the loose —” She scolded, “Yeah, I expect that’s what McGonagall will say when I ask of permission,” said Harry  bitterly.

Ron gritted at his teeth(nothing was bothering him, more like this train ride felt too long and he wasn’t keen on doing such a show in front of people for so long .)

“If Dumbledore was  really  worried about Voldemort’s head supporter coming out and murdering you in cold blood, they wouldn’t have sent your Hogwarts letter this year.”

Ron leaned back, looking out the window. The room spread with a cold silence.

Hermione, unlike Harry whom  just  thought Ron was growing out if such childish phases as fear of a word, knew something was up.

Ron never, ever, used that word. Wouldn’t think of it, speak it, read it, listen to it.

Before Hermione could voice any underlying concerns, Professor Lupin stirred.

Harry stopped fiddling with the hem of his shirt, turning to the shabby man, Hermione focusing her attention on him, and, well, Ron paid no mind.

The Hogwarts Express moved  steadily  north and the scenery outside the window became wilder and darker while the clouds overhead thickened overhead.

At one o’clock the plump witch with the food cart arrived at the compartment door.

“Perhaps  we wake him up.” Ron asked, nodding towards Professor Lupin. “Looks he could do with some food.” 

Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously. “Er — Professor?” she said. “Excuse me — Professor?” 

He didn’t move. “Don’t worry, dear,” said the witch, as she handed a large stack of cauldron cakes. “If he’s hungry when he wakes, I’ll be up front with the driver.” 

“Been sleeping for far too long.” Ron said, “Don’t reckon he’s dead?” He spilled out, trying to look a little feared.

“He’s breathing.” Harry placated, looking at the professor and passing a cauldron cake to Hermione.

Mid-afternoon,  just  as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard footsteps outside in the corridor again, and their three least favorite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle .

“Well, look who it is,” said Malfoy in his usual lazy drawl, pulling open the compartment door.

“Potty and the Weasel.” Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly.

Ron hummed,  suddenly  holding his diary, thrumming through the pages with his thumb, tracing letter upon letter on the  freakishly  blank pages.

“I heard your father finally got his hands on some gold this summer, Weasley,” said Malfoy.

“Did your mother die of shock?” Ron shook his head  blankly, “Not dead. Wish she did, though, wouldn’t have to hear your high pitched squealing.” Ron replied  darkly, wiping something red off of his hand.

Steam  nearly  blew through the blonde’s ears, before breathing out, normal color returning to his face .

Malfoy readjusted his tie—Ronald noted they needed to change into their robes—Ron spoke once more.

“Anyways. Be quiet will you, some people are getting rest.” He nodded to Professor Lupin beside himself.

“Who’s that?” said Malfoy, before he could get any sort of word into his dispute with Ronald, taking an automatic step backward as he spotted Lupin. 

“New teacher,” said Harry, blinking at him, whilst he and Hermione stayed sitting alongside Ron. 

“What were you saying, Malfoy?” Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed; he wasn’t fool enough to pick a fight right under a teacher’s nose.

Malfoy closed the car door, disappearing down the left train hallway. 

Ron continued looking through his notebook, swiping letters along the pages. He wiped his finger again.

Harry and Hermione shared a look with eachother—they’d expected Ron to be more bothered.

“Pass me a chocolate frog, will you Harry?” He stretched a hand forward, eyes still glued to his notes. He  lightly  rocked the professor.

“Ron,” Hermione and Harry said, looking at Professor Lupin, “be careful,” But, Professor Lupin was still out cold .

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which  gradually  darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks.

The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept. 

“Seems we’re nearly  there,” Ronald said, leaning forward to look at the completely black window. Though, the train started to slow down.

“It’s too early—” said Hermione, checking her watch. “—so why’re we stopping?” The train was getting slower and slower.

Hard rain began to hurl itself at the windows, crackles of thunder in the outs and a brisk wind shaking each train car . 

Harry got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking  curiously  out of their compartments. 

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks.

Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they  were plunged  into total darkness.

“The lights—” Hermione shouted, “Harry, don’t step on me,” Ron said, as Harry felt his way back to his seat. 

“Have we broken down?” Harry asked, “Can’t be.  The train’s  magically  spelled to keep going no matter what—unless the conductor wants it to, thats why you see the conductor always bustling about—until it reaches Hogwarts.” Ron provided. 

There was a loud squeak, before Hermione pulled her wand out, casting a quiet lumos, and the three of them could make out dim outlines of the other.

“Something’s moving.” Ron said. He drummed his fingers against the freezing glass, eyes thinned.

With a push—a brief burst of pain—a voice entered Ron’s head.

_—entor. Get your wand out._ Tom.

Ron scrambled, searching among his pockets for his wand before reaching it and grasping it  tightly.

_You aren’t going to feel anything when it is here. Pretend. You have to pretend._

Before Ron could respond, the voice drifted away like a wind blew past it, and Tom was gone.

The compartment door burst open with a large click, and someone fell over Harry’s legs.

“Sorry! Harry, do y’know what’s—ouch! Sorry—”

“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, feeling around in the dark and pulling Neville up by his cloak. “Harry? Oh, good, it’s you. Do you know what—”

“No idea! Sit down —”

“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” Hermione interrupted. 

Ron could feel moving, heard a few ows, then heard the door slide open again, and a thud of two loud squeals of pain.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”

“Ginny?”

“Hermione?”

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for Ron —”

“Ginny?”

”Ron?”

”Sit down—“

“Not here!” said Harry  hurriedly. “I’m here!”

“Ouch!” said Neville.

“ _Quiet_!” a hoarse voice burst out suddenly.

Professor Lupin appeared to have woken.

No one spoke. A soft crackle was heard, before Professor Lupin was illuminated. 

He appeared to be holding a handful of flames. “Stay. Stay where you are.” He said. His voice was like gravel, and unsettling. 

He stood, hands ghosting against the compartments door handle. But it slid open before he could reach it. 

A cold, freezing wind blew in, slowly. It covered the room like a dark film and Ron could feel something weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

Standing in the doorway, dimly lit by Professor Lupins flames, was a cloaked figure. It floated, lightly, up and down. It breathed the cold air, frosting the windows beside it. 

It’s face was completely covered beneath the hoods fabric. It looked dead. Felt dead. Like a blackhole of just.. nothing. Ron could barely feel anything himself. 

Shattered cries and shouts surrounded him and a thud was heard on the floor. Ron leaned back, grabbing onto the seat. He felt like he was being dragged away.

Further and further. He felt like he was going, but he also felt nothing. Nothing at all.

As soon as it started, it was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it feels like I’m rehashing canon events from the book; promise, by Hogwarts things will(probably)dramatically diverge.


	4. Mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s the funny thing, about being Tom. About being Tom in Ron’s head. About being Voldemort. They’re different people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of chapters, schools been repeatedly doing hit and runs on me. heres a short tom pov chapter. not proofread.

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”  
― Mark Twain

He was dying.

The dark lord doesn’t simply just die. No. 

He does not just die.

He had to do something. Anything. Firstly, he was going to take the Weasley girl’s body. It was easy enough. She was going through trivial things like teenage angst and anxiety and growth. He knew that. He was.. familiar with it. Ish.

Her insecurities were written on her sleeve. So easy.

Her diary entries were also, a messy handful.

He wasn’t equipped to deal with these things—but after, oh, it was so easy. He liked easy. But easy also meant something was wrong. Something was bound to happen. Something was going to happen, and he knew he would not like that something.

He was getting senile. Or going fucking crazy. Because he knew these things, and, still—good merlin, he _still went through_ with taking the girl. 

Tom. Oh, Tom. You are getting old. 16, yet such a fool. He could feel it echoing in his head. Voldemort. Voldemort taunted him at every turn, because Voldemort failed. Tom does not fail. He does not die. Yet—he did. He failed.

When the Potter child thought he killed him and the Weasley boy picked up the diary, he clung. He clung to every fiber of the redheaded boys being—his core, his magic—he stuck, and stayed. 

Just long enough to spread. Spread like a virus. An ideal, something so innocently slipped between the crevices, something so plain that the boy would not realize. And by the time he did, Tom had him wrapped around his finger. 

There was a little blood, of course, always had to have some, but he had him. He had it. He was not dying. Because he did not simply _die._ Things like mortality were.. just, _not for him_. 

Now, there were little things. Things he had to take care of—he gladly did, the boy was turning out not to be so bad—and because although he liked easy, easy meant there was something waiting rudely at the end of the line. 

The boy was not easy. Not at all. He was frustrating—extraordinarily emotional, insecure to a goddamn fault, and loyal. Loyal to the fucking dirt.

It took long. So long. Too long. Too long to finally make a _somewhat_ workable space in the boys head. It wasn’t comfortable—morganas sake, it wasnt—but it worked. Underneath the trivial teenage hormones and jealousy, insecurity, feelings and stupid childlike curiosities was a talent.

Just a sliver, light, small, pale and thin. But it was there. Tom grabbed onto it. Let it drag him around the boys mind, so he could take hold. Tom let it fester in the corners. Let it grow in the dark. Still was, at the moment, but it would be worth it.

The seeds you plant do not grow into trees in a day, Tom must remind himself. He must remind himself everyday, every hour, minute, second, because if he didn’t he’d go haywire and, perhaps, kill the boy and himself.

He may be going mad. Just slightly. 

The boys behavior definitely struck him as nearing insufferable. It toed the line, edged it and messed around, but it made sure never to cross it. Gladly, Tom had a lot of patience. Patience was a virtue.

Well, it was a virtue that seemed the Weasley boy didn’t have. Tom barely had enough patience to placate himself, but if he was going to stay in the boys mind and infect him with himself, he needed to spare some.

It’s not really a good choice, but it’s not like he had any other choice at all.

Deep down, Tom knew, since the Potter boy destroyed the diary, that this was his last chance. He didn’t have anything to to back to. And, in the end, he would never choose his future self as an option.

The things that differed Tom and Voldemort stretched on for miles. Voldemort was insane. He was mad. Lost sight of their true goal. Tom knew his priorities. Didnt have a problem sacrificing what needed to be sacrificed. He was clear minded. 

That’s the funny thing, about being Tom. About being Tom in Ron’s head. About being _Voldemort_. They’re different people.

Tom in Ron’s head is someone.. important. To himself. To Ronald. He has a duty. A responsibility. Ron himself doesn’t know _what_ he is, but he’s oh so greatful for him to guide and let him grow. He’s a puppet. Ron, that is. A shadow puppet.

Being played on for appearances to the world in between. Tom could never let anyone know who he was. It’d get the boy Kiss’d immediately. And certainly, at this point, Tom knew, that he could never let anyone know. Not even after he’d taken over. But it was going to be a long time before he could. 

He just hoped the boy could keep sane enough until then.


	5. Effundensque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They raised their hands in mock surrender, “Nothing bad, Ronniekins!” Fred said, leaning into George, “No need for such hostility, brother oh mine!” George continued.

“I could disappear from the face of the earth, and the world would go on moving without the slightest twinge. Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.”  
― Haruki Murakami

Harry passed out.

When Ron felt like he could, well, _feel_ , again, or even see, he saw Harry on the car floor, limp. Hermione and Neville were crouched down next to him, shaking him and patting his face. He was extremely pale, and although unconscious, eyes were wide open. But all you could see were the whites, anyways—his eyes were far too rolled back.

Harry heaved, though still not awake, as the train lights soon turned back on. Professor Lupin peaked out into the hallway, wand gripped tightly in hand. He’d cast a spell, one that Ron had never heard of before, and the figure had been blown away like it was nothing but a vision. 

Harry twitched lightly, and Hermione and Neville stepped back, before he finally opened his eyes. Ron stayed glued to his seat, heart feeling like it’d sunk down into his chest, never to be seen again. Ginny sat in the corner, trembling and holding onto the velvet seats tightly. 

Hermione and Neville pulled Harry up into his seat beside Ginny, and he blinked rapidly. Neville handed Harry his glasses from his jean pocket, all while hesitantly wondering _what in merlins name happened_. 

It was certainly confusing for Ron. None of them had such a reaction as extreme as Harry’s—Professor Lupin gave much less than a glance to it.

Tom tapped in at the moment where Professor Lupin pulled away from the door. 

_—erlin. This isn’t working. Boy._

Tom? 

_That. Was a dementor. Don’t take the chocolate, eithe—_

Tom—why, wh—

_—No questions. I’m running out of time. The dementor has taken a piece of your—_

Tom! I can’t hear you—

_—So you are more me than you, now—_

I—can’t—hear—you—

_——emento—half your—oul and yo—would have died—f I ha—not taken ov—_

And he was gone. His words died down into a messy jumble, as he went. The diary burned cold in Ronald’s jeans, and he seethed. 

The world soon came back to him, and Ron pretended he was in the conversation. “What happened? Where’s that — that thing? Who screamed?” Harry asked, hands scrunched against his sleeves. 

“No one screamed.” Ron answered, staring at him before looking at the compartment once more. It was in complete disarray—luggage on the floor, papers scattered and quills crushed.

“But I heard screaming —” Harry said, wide eyed and more nervously fidgeting with the hems of his clothes. 

There was a large snap where Professor Lupin stood. It made a few of then jump in surprise—they were all quite skittish. He held a large bar of chocolate in his left hand, breaking it in pieces with his right. 

“Here,” he said, handing Harry a particularly big piece. “Eat it. It’ll help.”

“What was that thing?” Harry asked the haggard professor, holding the chocolate. “A Dementor,” Professor Lupin provided, handing smaller pieces to each of them in the compartment.

Just the touch of the chocolate made Ron feel like he’d been dunked into a cold bath of water. Like he was drowning. Ronald handed the piece to Ginny in front of him. She looked at him oddly, before taking a bite of it.

“One of the Dementors of Azkaban.” The teacher said, giving a short glance to them before hurriedly checking the windows and the corridor once more. 

The group stared at him. He crumpled the wrapper, shoving into his jean pocket. “Eat,” he repeated. “It’ll help.” He stepped away from the group, “I need to speak to the driver, excuse me...”

He strolled past them and disappeared down the dimly lit hall. “Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?” Hermione said. Ron could hear the group jump into a conversation of worries and anxieties.

But Ronald couldn’t get Tom out of his head. He’d had no problem asserting himself into Ron’s consciousness before, so why was it such a chore to, now. It hadn’t hurt, not at all, but it felt like Tom was being blocked by a radio static. His words were cut into messy sentences, some Ron could barely make sense of, before he disappeared completely. 

“I don’t get it... what happened?” Ron heard from infront of him. Hermione stuttered out a fearful response, trying to make sense of what exactly happened. None of them could make much out of it.

“You were twitching.. like you were sick.” Neville provided shakily. 

“Professor Lupin stepped over you, walked toward the Dementor, pulled out his wand,” Hermione added, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go.’”

Hermione continued, “But the Dementor didn’t move, so the professor whisper something. Silver shot out of his wand, and it turned around, sort of gliding away.” 

“It was horrible,” added Neville, in a higher voice, if it was possible. “Did.. did you feel how..” Neville shivered, “- _cold_ it got?” 

Ron nodded silently, picking at the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt. “It felt odd.” Harry blinked, eying Ron and the group. “But didn’t any of you — fall off your seats?” he asked awkwardly, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. 

Hermione gave him a confused look, before answering with a short “No.”

Soon enough, the ragged professor entered the compartment once more. He had noticed the inevitable dreary mood, attempting to lighten it with a small smile directed towards Harry. He mumbled something incoherent, but kindly, before Harry took a bite of the square sweet. 

“We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” The professor said. “Are you all right, Harry?”

Ron turned away from the duo, looking outside the window. At some point, the train had started moving once more. He hadn’t noticed. It shook half heartedly, as if also been shocked by the run down. His fingers lightly traced lines against the frosted glass, blowing hot air on it. He was.. worried. He didn’t know what about. But he was worried. 

At long last, the train pulled into Hogsmeade station, with a long screech. A familiar bellow was heard from the train line outside, a lamp in hand. “Firs’ years this way!”

The three of them stepped off the train, patting down their disheveled and crinkled robes. They spotted the extremely large outline of Hagrid, and he turned to them. 

“All right, you three?” Hagrid said over the crowd. They waved at him, though Ron turning abruptly at the amount of people piling onto the platform. 

They all followed the rest of the crowd to what looked like a rough track. It was muddied up, presumably from the excessive rain from earlier, if it even reached the area. Stage coaches sat absently waiting for students to board. Ron blinked at the skeleton figured horses sitting in front, neighing and scratching the ground. He ignored it, climbing in with Harry and Hermione.

He was still preoccupied. Harry and Hermione took worried note of it, stopping their quiet conversation to watch their friend. Ron looked upon to the field in front of him, breathing in cold night air. It prickled his ears lightly. Ron was.. far too quiet. He himself was too tired to put up appearances, alongside Tom’s sudden disappearance and just overall last message. 

The carriage bumped and dwindled into the field, Harry and Hermiones conversation resuming, and Tom, trying to get the hell out of whatever cage he was shoved into at the moment. 

...

When the carriages slowed in front of thick, iron gates, Ron looked up to see two more dementors sat at each gate side. He blinked slowly, breathing a little harsher. Harry sat back in the seat beside him, eyes closed and hands wrung together nervously. It was a certain thing that he’d be affected once more, considering what happened in the train car.

Hermione wrote furiously into a notebook, looking out the miniature window. They were nearing the castle already, carriage bumping up and down incessantly. The three of them stepped out, to, surprise surprise, Malfoy.

Ron squinted at the boy. Ron knew he grew over the summer, and was certainly the tallest out of this years 3rd years, but he didn’t realize how small the blonde heir was. He felt a lot less annoying now, just like a.. Ron thought for a moment, watching him taunt Harry. 

“Did you faint as well, Weasley?” Malfoy said loudly. Oh. Ron finally got it. “A child.” He said nonchalantly, looking down on the blonde boy. Malfoy blinked, stepping back. His ears turned red, spreading out into his cheeks, before his whole face was red. He pushed Crabbe and Goyle away, stepping up into the castle.

Hermione and Harry turned to Ron, mouths open, before bursting into fits and giggles. Ron sweat nervously, giving smiles he begged looked like smiles and not pained grimaces. He let out short, halted, laughs. The three of them hurried to the doors, Professor Lupin eying the red headed Weasley with an unidentifiable glint in his eye. 

The door into the Great Hall opened to the right, and they continued on into the hall, before a voice called out, “Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!”

The three of them turned, to face Professor McGonagall, readjusting her glasses and her robes. “There’s no need to look so worried — I just want a word in my office,” she said. “Move along there, Weasley.”

It, wasn’t surprising, to say the least. Harry passed out on the train. There was no way it wasn’t going to travel to the teachers—not when someone like Malfoy already got his hands on the subject. 

Ron blinked, waving halfheartedly as Harry and Hermione were whisked away. Harry looked ahead, whilst Hermione flashed him an apologetic smile. He sent a weak one back, which perhaps looked more like a wince.

Ronald walked away from the Great Hall’s entrance, finding an empty spot in the middle of the table.

The absence of either of his.. _friends_ , if he could still think that way, was welcomed. He had hardly any alone time since they’d arrived at the end of August, and Tom’s last message..well. You get the jist. 

He looked from side to side, noting where his siblings were: Fred and George to his right, beside Lee Jordan, Katie Bell and Alica Spinnet. Ginny, to his left, beside Colin Creevey, Samantha Sewlyn, and ironically, a boy in her year named Tom Cresswell. 

The redhead sighed, tapping his foot against the hard floor. He knew that Tom.. had a bad temper. Ish. He just didn’t like when Ron meddled where he needn’t. But Ron hadn’t heard from him since the train.

He slipped out his notebook and a quill from his robes. Tapping the quill end to his chin, he racked his brain. There was, in all honesty, no explanation as to what the _hell_ happened then. 

Thumping his head on the table, he heard steps from behind him. Fred and George, he presumed, as the double steps of feet came from his right. 

“What do you want?” He spit out.

They raised their hands in mock surrender, “Nothing bad, Ronniekins!” Fred said, leaning into George, “No need for such hostility, brother oh mine!” George continued. 

Ron rolled his eyes, chewing on the side of his cheek. “Go away.” He said, lifting his head to get back to his notebook.

Fred and George let out childlike whines, begging him to listen, before he finally turned to meet their eyes. The two of them jumped in mock excitement, “Winner!” they said, hands in the air. 

Ron furrowed his brows, expression flitting between what could either be described as disgust or familiarity. The twins stopped, looking to the other, a mischievous look slipping on. Ron raised a brow, “What are you two gits—“

..And he was pulled away by two sets of arms, one pair of hands slipping a blind fold onto his vision.

...

The running stopped, and Fred and George pulled the blindfold off of him. Ron blinked, trying to get used to the light. “Alright. Spit it out.” Ron said, burying his hands in his robe pockets. 

“We’d like you to try a new product of ours!” Fred said, giving a grin that just yelled ‘ _Aren’t you so lucky!_ ’. Ron scoffed, “And why should I do that?” 

“Just hear us out, Ronnie!” George said pulling his pale hands together and begging him mockingly. “Our product,” Fred paused for dramatic effect, “-is called the “Weasley’s Propitious Persuasion Potion,”

Ron rose a brow. 

“What does it do?” Fred’s eyes widened with glee, “ I’m so happy you asked, little brother!” George continued his brothers sentence, “If you couldn’t already tell, and I assure you, we won’t blame you if you didn’t,” The two of them snickered.

“It makes you _happy_. Gives you a high for a few hours. Makes you adventurous. Open to pretty much everything—and _extremely_ agreeable!”

”And, remind me, why would I take that?” Ron said, pulling gently at a bright red lock of hair. “Because, dear brother, we think you’d like to be happy for some time. You’ve been _such_ a hostile, boring bore as of late—and we think we know why!” 

Ron rolled his shoulders, fighting the fatigue settling in his eyelids. “Well, remind me, will you?” George grinned, “It’s definitely got to do with that lady friend of yours,” Fred made smooching noises behind his older twin, a hand placed on his forehead and dramatically bemoaning his tragic unrequited love. “Being stoled away by Harry- _bloody_ -Potter!” George finished, eyesbrows wiggling. 

“Always carrying that oh-so-Percy _notebook_..” Fred slowed, a pensive and vexed expression appearing on his face. George faltered, nudging his brother. “Fred? You there Freddie?” 

Fred winced, lightly grinding his teeth. He grimaced, most likely meant to be a smile. “Right here, Georgie!” George nodded, brows lightly tensed. 

“ _Uh_ ,” George resumed, coughing into his shoulder awkwardly, “Anyways, Ronnie-kins, we think you’d like this potion!” George pulled a glass bottle filled with ugly neon liquid, out of Fred’s cloak and presenting it to their youngest brother. 

And Ron, — though Tom thought Ron’s judgement had gotten better — took the potion.

...

Ron absently thought, that it was somewhat like what muggle drugs would probably feel like. 

He felt his way to the great hall, noting the potion made his vision _extremely_ saturated. At the table, sat Harry and Hermione. He closed his eyes, rubbing them, before taking his seat beside one of the two of them.

”Where’d you go?” Harry asked, “Fred and George dragged me off, fed me some potion.” Ron said, shrugging. Hermione’s eyes widened, mouth opening and body moving to, presumably, pull out her potions book and lecture him on unperfected potions — before Dumbledore stood to talk.

“Welcome!” He started, “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast...”

Ron tuned the headmaster out, looking to the table. The lights overhead, although spelled, were becoming a real pain in the _arse_. Dumbledore dragged on about dementors, before Ron thumped his forehead on the table. The twinses potion was doing the exact opposite, it seemed, as his fatigue and headache began to feel like it had been amped up to the nines. He groaned, pressing his hands to his ears.

Hermione, or maybe even Harry, placed a hand on his shoulder. Ron flinched, recoiling at the touch. Everything was getting to be too much. Ron didn’t know if the twins laced his potion, or if Tom was acting up without caution, but when Dumbledore finished the welcoming speech — he stood up, stalking off to the dorms. 

Well. Unfortunately, he forgot that it was the beginning of the bloody year — and he hadn’t been given the password. Ron sighs, tumbling over unto a wall beside the fat lady’s portrait.

Mumbling incoherent curses, the redhead drifts off into sleep.


	6. Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What I can say for sure, is that you,” He pointed a pale finger, “Are supposed to be dead.”

“As far as I could see, life demanded skills I didn't have.”  
― Susanna Kaysen

The first thing that Ron felt when he woke, was that he was _not_ in Hogwarts.

All sense of charms, wards, spells, hexes, and most noticeably, the distant cackle of Peeves, had disappeared from the air. It was as if he was the only one in the world.

Before he could peacefully open his eyes and prop himself up from, _wherever_ he was, anyways, there was a loud shriek. 

“You — !” The old womans voice reverberated against Ron’s own ears, as if she was rounding a good one on him. It was a pathetic, foul, old screech that sounded reminiscent of fingernails on a bare chalkboard. 

“I heard what you did — I know you did all those _evil_ things — ” She said, pointing a wrinkled grey finger to his face.

Ron felt himself blink, looking up from the particularly interesting patch of decayed grass on the hill. His face contorted into a rude scowl, gritting his teeth.

The woman — Mrs. Cole, faded into the distance of his own vision, as his gaze trailed to the building behind her. In the window, a small, irritating glass box, stood the one responsible for it all. 

He wouldn’t deny, Billy had gotten what he’d deserved, but seeing the boy — fairly unharmed, and if so, did not show it — peeking out the window and watching himself and Mrs. Cole intently — set his nerves on fire. 

He dug his finger nails into his pale palms, drawing blood. 

“Pathetic.” Ron winced, turning to his side, feeling his consciousness pull away from the scene that now played in the distance, instead of through his own eyes. 

A boy sat beside him, wearing Hogwarts robes. A prefect pin was clipped onto his collar. Ron blinked, brows furrowing. He knew him — Ron was sure of it. 

“I — er —” Ron stuttered, before merely nodding. The boy stared at him, whilst Ron was overwhelmed by a feeling he could only describe as ‘ _distasteful_ ’. 

The sixth year waved a hand to the field, removing any sight of the hill, Mrs. Cole and the young boy. It was replaced with a dark grey room, all but empty except for one small square table, adorned with two chairs.

And with another wave of the prefect’s hands, they were sat at the table. Ron flinched at the sudden movement.

The older boy placed his hands on the smooth table, one over the other in an elegant manner. Ron faced him and for the first time, looked at him — _really_ looked at him. 

And just by the eyes, Ron knew. He simply did. “Tom?” He blurted. Tom thinned his eyes, leaning back. Tom coughed lightly, as in a show of saying he would just speak.

“What I can say for sure, is that you,” He pointed a pale finger, “Are supposed to be dead.” Ron blinked, breath stuttering in his own throat. “Dead?” He repeats.

Tom raises brow, “Did you not hear me, boy?” Ron gulps, “I did — I heard you, I just —“ Tom sighs, dismissing the subject.

“The dementor killed you.” He continued. Ron nodded, finding it hard to look into the older boys brown eyes. They weren’t soft, or warm, no—the exact opposite. 

“It mistook you,” Tom said, “For me.” The prefect bounced his leg impatiently under the table.

“What I’m trying to tell you, is that you,” He digs a finger into Ron’s chest, vanishing the table seperating them, “Aren’t you, anymore.” 

Ron stumbled back, “But, Tom — I, I don’t understand.” Tom closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, before dropping his hand from the redheads chest.

“I,” he paused, a contemplative look slipping onto his sharp features, “— _we_ , are the _same person_.”

The two of them began walking down the endless, empty, grey hall. “When I first, _appeared,_ you could say, we,” He gestured to the both of them, “Became two halves of a whole. Entirely seperate. Yet we made one.”

”Two — two halves?” Ron mumbled under his breath.

Tom didn’t respond. “The dementor mistook you for me. I’m supposed to be dead. It’s their auto-response to Inferi.” 

Ron winced, bristling against the name. He heard it before. But Ron was unsure if it was from Tom’s memories, or his own. 

“—Tom, you’re—“

Tom shook his head, “You needn’t worry yourself with such trivial things as my past, boy.” 

Ron nodded hesitantly — Tom was someone he, although the older boy would absolutely loathe the words, cared for. And hearing such shocking news was something he didn’t know if he could keep from himself. 

“We are now, essentially,” Tom started again, “The same person. No halves. No seperation. A whole, is what we are.”

”A whole.” Ron repeated.

Tom stared at him. “Needless to say, it’s not going to happen smoothly. The magic influx could kill you. Ignore that—“

Ron woke up, for the second time that day.


	7. Corium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sighed, dropping the subject. “Believe what you’d like, Harry. It’s your death, after all.“

A blanket had been placed overtop him. Ron screwed his brows together, sitting up and disgarding the brown fabric.

What was Tom _saying?_ He was.. dead? Dead? But he was sitting right here. Not dead. Not dead at all. 

Ron ran a clammy hand through his hair. It wasn’t making sense. _Nothing_ was making sense. It wasn’t enough for Tom just to say that he’d died, then get cut off. 

He knew that Tom didn’t like when he asked and poked and prodded at particular places that he didn’t need to (like when he sneaked a peek at some of Tom’s Hogwarts memories and the prefect gave him nightmares for the month,) but it was getting to the point where Ron _knew_ Tom was hiding something.

It wasn’t at all normal that Ron had a voice in his head, hell, he was sure he was the only one with such a thing, but if the prefect insisted on staying, he was going to have to start telling him things.

“Ron?”

The redhead turned, spotting Ginny, standing at the staircase. Ron stared at her, unresponsive. She took it as an invitation to be near him (in which case, it really _wasn’t_ ,) considering her steps getting closer, and closer, before she sat down beside him.

He raised a brow at her. She merely grinned, which turned out to be more of a tense showing of teeth.

The two of them sat in tense silence for a moment. Before Ron could stand up and leave, she opened her mouth and spoke. “Ron,” She paused, “how are you?” She asked, tugging at his robe sleeve.

Ron shut his eyes, pressing his lips into a line. His patience was running thin.

“Good.” He said, in a slightly strained voice.

”Don’t give me that rubbish, Ron.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Stark-raving mad. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I know something’s up, Ron. I can tell these things. You aren’t as solid as you think y—“

“It isn’t _any_ of your business, so _piss off_ , if you would.” 

A silent moment passed by, before Ginny stood up. She walked past him, neither sparing a glance. 

He sighed, clutching the side of his head that still seared with a dull ache. He knew Ginny wasn’t going to stop meddling, not until she got what she wanted(or what Ron placed on a silver platter _for_ her, anyways.) 

...

Ron wouldn’t _call_ himself dark. Especially considering that it wasn’t himself that pushed these matters to the forefront. It was the dementors. 

Considering he was _dead_ , or dying, it _was_ justified that Ron should look into such things as.. immortality. Even if such things were banned. And definitely _not_ in the Hogwarts Library. 

Well. He knew _alchemic exchange_ wasn’t banned. Merlin, it’d been a subject up until the last hundred years-or-so.

And really, was alchemy really that far from being immortal? One life for the sake of the other. Multiple.. forever. 

Ron knew he may be getting in over his head, and knew that he could go through with this and maybe, or maybe not, get caught. It wasn’t anything big, after all. 

It was just going to be his rat. It was a pesky, pathetic thing. It ate and slept and ran away. Ron considered, and did find out, that in such matters as _getting rid_ of such smaller living things in exchange for something small — like healing a fracture, or a particularly painful curse or hex — would work perfectly.

At the moment, he was just testing the waters. This works, and.. he moves on. To larger things. He wasn’t going to do anything drastic — he wasn’t mad, nor evil. No. Not at all.

It was merely a matter of self survival. And self importance. Who _didn’t_ want to die? Everyone, of course. 

“Pathetic.” Ron muttered, holding Scabber’s cage up to his face level. As much as he disliked messes, he wasn’t going to cast the killing curse on the old thing.

He wouldn’t go that far. He wasn’t batty _._ A quick diffindo would do the trick, however much blood poured out. 

He flicked open the lock on the silver cage, wrapping a hand around the thinning creature. It wriggled in his grasp, teeth attaching to his fingers. 

It bit, of course. Ron held it up, eying it. He expected the rat to be as dumb as a troll, drooling and eating and slowly dying — yet it held a glint in its eye that told him there was something more. 

Ron held up his wand, placing the tip to its stomach. It bit harder this time, through his fingernail. “Ow.” He said flatly. 

Letting go, and it dropped to the dorm floor with a thud, ready to run off, but Ron picked it back up, cramming the rat into its cage.

He squinted, looking at the creature curiously, as he sucked at his bleeding thumb. “Hm.” He hummed, placing the cage back down on his bedside table. 

Shit. He was late for Divination. 

...

  
“Make some assumptions about me.” Ron said, handing Harry his blue teacup, “Lets see, — how about the grim?” Ron said, squinting at his textbook.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “You’re mad, mate.” The redhead shrugged, flipping the page. 

“Well,” Harry said, “I _can_ see a key, but,” He turned it left, “Theres also a cross.. and maybe a snake.” Ron looked up, to his book, then back up. 

Grabbing his teacup from Harry’s grasp, Ron looked in closer. Key. Cross. Snake. His eyes twitched at the words, _“remain_ _cautious_ ”, “ _trial and suffering_ ”, and.. “ _enemy of falsehood. examine pets for hidden_ _animagi_.” 

Placing his cup down and noticing Harry’s worried gaze, Ron shrugged. “Hand me your cup.” He said, beckoning it over.

Harry nodded gingerly, placing it in Ronald’s hands. “Cat.” He said, lifting a brow curiously, before turning it once more, “Acorn, perhaps. Is that a dog?” 

Professor Trelawney appeared, as soon as the words dog left Ron’s mouth. She brought a hand forward for the cup. She announced a falcon, cat, club, skull, and the grim.

She tragically bemoaned Harry’s fate. Ron snorted. 

The day went by and sped up in a blur, Transfiguration, McGonagall reassuring Harry, before Lunch. 

Ron picked at his food slowly, taking a loaf of bread from the other side of the table. “Harry,” The boy looked up, “I’d say to keep careful of what Trelawney said.” 

Well. It was most likely she _was_ right.

Considering, well, Harry’s leaves, as well as his — they were as good as accurate. Since the class, Ron had.. a _creeping_ suspicion about that pet of his. Alongside Harry’s reading — the cat, specifically — well. You could make out that one.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, don’t listen to him. Trelawney,” She paused, making a silent prayer to the teacher gods of respect or whatever the hell, “is a _quack_.”

Ron shrugged, “Listen to what you want. My uncle Bilius saw a grim, then he died.” Hermione waved his words away, grabbing a pitcher of pumpkin juice and another of orange, silently debating. 

“Grim’s are frightening. Wizards usually, well — It scares the shit out of them.” Hermione looked to reprimand him, yet faltered, shaking her head. “There you’ve got it. Scared to death, it seems.”

He sighed, dropping the subject. “Believe what you’d like, Harry. It’s your death, after all.“ Hermione gave him a rude look, while sending Harry a pitiful, apologetic one.

“Thanks, mate. Makes me feel loads better.” Harry deadpanned.

...

Ron yawned.

Harry had been flying for, he estimated, three minutes, now. Most of the class stood in anticipation, either for Harry’s death or his glory in having rode Buckbeak. Ron really expected the former, yet the latter presented itself as if just to spite him.

Class went on smoothly, as Ron absently bowed to the bird in front of him. It tilted its head curiously. 

“I’m dying! — I’m dying! Look — “ 

Ron knew that scream. Or highpitched voice. Whichever it was, anyways. Ron turned to see Malfoy, on the floor, rolling around and halfheartedly holding his wounded arm.

He rose a brow curiously, watching buckbeak neigh indifferently, whilst Hagrid carried Malfoy away. 

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Hermione asked. Ron turned to Hermione, shrugging. “Wouldn’t hurt to have him in the infirmary for some time.” 

She rolled her eyes, “Not _Malfoy_.” She turned to Harry, “Hagrid.” The two of them finished. 

“What’ll happen to him?” Harry said. Ron shrugged once more. “Least he’ll get is a warning. Considering Malfoy,” Ron gave them a knowing look, accompanied by words unsaid. 

The rest of the day went considerably slower. CoMC was followed by charms, then history of magic. After classes ended, Harry and Hermione went to Hagrid’s, and after a short row and muttering words, they left Ron to his business.

Finally. Ron rolled his eyes, grabbing the metal cage on his bedside table. His rat slept far into the corner, breathing up and down. 

In the expected case his rat _was_ what he thought, Ron would, logically, have to find a way to turn the pesky thing back. He didn’t know said spell, of course, and would probably have to do a bit of reading.

Ron internally grimaced. No one could catch Ron Weasley _voluntarily_ entering the library, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If only he’d been a less _pathetic_ person before Tom.

Though, Ron stopped to think, there _was_ one person who may know the spell without having him need to read a few books. Madam Pince would probably never let him step foot into the library, and this person was really just a table away at breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.

It was a long shot chance, and would probably blacklist his opinion on a certain house being the incarnate of evil, but, well. Ron had become a risk taker.

...

The next day, Ron sat, tapping his foot under the table impatiently, eying a certain brunette across the room.

He stood up — well, _tried_ to stand up, before Hermione pulled him by the wrist, “Where are you going? We’ve got potions in ten minutes. I’d think you’d want to stuff your face full.” 

He ground his teeth, “I’ve got to speak with Nott.” There was a clatter at the table. Harry had dropped his spoon. Hermiones eyes widened, “What business do you have with _Theodore Nott_?” 

“Er,” Ron fumbled for a response, seeing Theodore pack up his book bag, “Potions homework.” He finally answered, practically running off to catch the seedy third year. 

Nott stopped at the sight of the redhead coming full speed at him, grabbing his bag tightly. He rose a brow, “Weasley?” Ron caught his breath, cautiously watching Greengrass and Parkinson chattering away, before they walked down the hall to the Slytherin Dorms.

“I need to speak with you. About,” He paused, waiting for Zabini to pass them, “About, er, Animagi.” Nott’s eyes widened, “I know you’re fath—“ Nott grit his teeth, grabbing Ron by the sleeve and pulling him away, “Not _here_.”

Stopping at an empty classroom, Nott pushed the both of them in. He rose a wand to Ron’s throat, “How do you know?” He asked. Ron gulped, “How do I know what—“ Nott tightened his grip on his wand, “How do you know!” He growled.

Ron stood still. “The description.” Nott faltered, while Ron continued, “The description of him in the trial newspaper.“ The brunette dropped his hand to his side.

“It said that he could get away with about anything. That even in the face of danger, it seemed he ‘disappeared into the night.’”

Nott blinked. “But that doesn’t _tell you_ that he’s an animagus.” He stated, hand wrapped around his wand once more. “But it gives me enough to know it.” Ron shot back, “Alongside other articles about your fathers.. _questionable_ deeds, I can make it out.”

Nott held his hard stare for a moment before sighing. “What do you want, Weasley?” He looked up, “There’s no way you’d go out of your way to speak to a _S_ _lytherin_ just to tell me you figured out my fathers dirty secret.”

Ron nodded in agreement, scratching his cheek, “I have a feeling,” He paused, “That my pet is an animagus.” 

“Your pet. An animagus.” Nott laughed, shaking his head.

”Yes. In your own words, theres no way I would talk to a _Slytherin_ , if not to ask something serious. Get _off it_ , Nott.” 

“How do you know he is?” Ron leaned onto the door, biting his tongue. “Divination. Trelawney gave me some barmy reading.”

The pureblood boy looked like he was ready to die of laughter, “It sounds like I’m taking the piss, I _know_ , but the rat isn’t a magical one, and he’s lived in my family for _eleven_ bloody years.”

Nott paused, a contemplative look slipping onto his pale features, “Eleven years, you say?” Ron nodded. “That’s far too long for a normal rat to live, but no Animagi has _ever_ stayed in form that long.”

Ron nodded dumbly, as the two sat in silence.

”I know you know the spell.” Ron cut in.

Nott’s face darkened. “And what of it?”

“Do it. On my rat. If he stays a rat, that’s that. I leave you alone. We forget about this.”

”And if it turns?”

”That’s my own business.”

Nott crossed his arms in thought. “Fine.” Ron breathed a sigh of relief, “But don’t speak of this. To _anyone_.” 

“Cross my heart hope to die, Nott.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if rons behaviour is a little wishy washy — thats the point. id say to expect either canon normal, maybe extra angry ron, OR total riddle behavior xp

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, please!


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